Three and Holding

At the Park

I'm with the kids at the park where we have logged hundreds of hours over the past eight years. The perennials are thicker, more established then they were when I first started bringing Drew there as a toddler. Other than that, not much has changed, at least to the naked eye.

I am standing by E. as she navigates the stairs up to the slides, my hand hovering close, too close. She bats at it with her own, determined little fists. "No!" she declares, authoritatively patting her chest. She's in denial that she actually needs my help, already forgetting her recent spill into the pea gravel. Toddlers are like that. It doesn't matter that she doesn't appreciate the value of good intentions, because I know that she will likely need me at some point. So I stay.

The other two are another story entirely.

I have noticed a shift, this summer, in my older two. They are embracing spontaneous, imaginative play. I don't wish to leave the impression that they didn't always enjoy imaginative play, but I had to be involved, somehow. I had to suggest the premise, or play the role of the evil dragon. I had to enforce the rules of fairness and referee the fights. Now, they steep in their own imaginations, creating deliciously warm and inviting games. Games for two. They don't need me.

Today, at the park, the pea gravel is lava and they must pull out the magical sword before it melts away. As this game plays out, they clamour over the slides and to the very tops of the structure. They take on personas, hoot and holler, barely notice me watching them.

As suddenly as it began, the game morphs into hide and seek. Hailey is counting, while she expertly traverses the monkey bars, D. is hiding. H. shouts, "Ready? Ready?" and then, from a stand of trees, I hear D's response. I look up, up, up to see his head peeking out from the branches of a towering pine. Admonishments and words of caution dance on my tongue, begging to be set free, "Be careful! Come down! I'm afraid you might fall!" But I clamp my lips to keep them firmly in place. "He's capable," I remind myself, silently. "Don't sully this moment of freedom with fear."

He comes down from the tree and heads for the swings. "Push me, Mommy!" he calls, and I do, giving him an underdog, not because he needs me to, for his eight-year-old legs can pump higher than I can push, but for old times' sake. That's all he needs. He pumps and pumps, then stretches his legs out, leans back and watches his toes touch the clouds.

I'm not wearing a watch, but I'm fairly certain it's past lunch time. "On your bikes, please," I call out, and they listen the first time. No need to repeat myself.

"Will you time us to see how fast we can go around the corner and meet you back here?" they question, eagerly. I agree and they are out of my sight for half a minute, although the street is so quiet I can hear them chatting exuberantly to one other. Still, my heart beat speeds up during the time I can't see them. Will it always feel this way, this vague panic when they disappear from my sight, even though I intellectually know where they are? Even though I know they are safe? I suspect it might.

Suddenly, they reappear, racing up the street. They screech to a stop in front of my stroller to check on their official times. Then they are off again, pedalling up the hill at a pace that my feet can't match. I do send my heart along, though, to keep them company. That's one thing I can still do for them.